


Fox Feathers

by Jedibrarian



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jedibrarian/pseuds/Jedibrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition plans its debut at the Winter Palace. Warden Blackwall takes exception to the Duc de Chalons's invitation</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fox Feathers

Josephine regarded Tanna dubiously over a tower of books and papers. “A fox…with feathers?”

“That.”

“Well I can guarantee that no one else at the talks will be wearing anything like it.” She shifted a fresh leaf to the top of her writing slope and began to scratch at it with a quill. “Can you tell me more? I’ve studied a great deal of heraldry, but I know very little about Dalish blasons.”

“Oh, nothing so formal. My family’s got a story for it, one that the servants at the Palace might also know.” Tanna brushed her pile of correspondence aside for a moment. “Dirthamen, the secret-keeper, gave boons of special knowledge to all breathing things. The bears, of course, solitary and circumspect, kept their own council through long winter sleeps in holes, and that’s why they’re his favorite. The birds blabbed in trade for gold and jewels. The hares, who were loud as you please at the time, blabbed to hear themselves talk.

“And the foxes?”

“Best part. The foxes were smart.” Tanna cracked a toothy grin. “They cut a deal with the huntress, Andruil. And, at least until Dirthamen caught wind of it, she paid them each with a pair of wings. I like to think they still remember what it was like to fly. And they still keep their eyes open for intelligence to exchange, just in case they get another offer.”

Josephine took a heavy codex off of its cradle and turned it so that Tanna could see the pages. On one side, two black lions faced outward from an escutcheon of quartered green and chevalier gold, at the center of an elaborately mantled coat of arms. The opposite showed a variant illustration, replacing the supporters and charge with steel and silver foxes. “You’ve heard of the Black Fox of Val Chevin?”

“I’ve caught a verse or two of it when Sister Leliana was pretending to not notice me hiding from runners in the Rookery.”

“Much as he was a thorn in the side of the nobles, stories about him are very popular at court, and Gaspard has appropriated his mantle. He will take your choice of mask as an homage. Coincidence or not, flattering him would be to our benefit.”

The door to the great hall cracked open, interrupting Tanna’s search for a suitably derisive response. “Come in,” she called.

Blackwall entered, with neatly-queued hair, recently-scrubbed cheeks, and a jacket still creased from laundering. The mages’ jibes about his appearance had evidently affected him more than he’d let on.

He bowed to Josephine and Tanna in turn. “Sorry to interrupt. Might I have a word with the Lady Inquisitor when you’ve finished here?”

Josephine looked to Tanna, who nodded in assent. “We’ve discussed preliminaries. It’s time for me to ransack the library, poll a couple of other advisors, and look at our stock of materials. Maybe even get dinner in the meantime.”

“I- Are you certain? I don’t mean to impose.” His hands clenched and flexed at his sides. “I can return later if-”

“You topple kingdoms without blinking, lady Montilyet,” Tanna cut in. “I’d hate to see the vengeance you’d wreak if a man crossed you while you were hungry.”

She rose from her seat, scrunching her nose at the joke. “You’re welcome to use my office in the meantime. Come see me before you retire for the evening. I should have firmed up our designs by then.”

Blackwall gave another curtsy as Josephine departed, and watched until the door shut behind her. “I heard you’d be attending the talks at the Winter Palace as a guest of the Duc de Chalons.” He inclined his head toward the open book of heraldry. “Seems that’s true.”

He’d been carefully avoiding her after that initial tour of the battlements in their new home, and for the most part, she’d been happy to let him. With Skyhold, she’d inherited an overwhelming volume and variety of work to do; unwinding the knotted, tangled mess he was nursing under his hauberk was an unmissed distraction. His sudden interest, by contrast, was baffling.

“That’s what you wanted to discuss? Careful, Ser Warden. If people find out you’re paying attention to the negotiations, you might lose your ‘lone apolitical do-gooder’ credentials.” Sometimes she could tease him into smiling.

He set his jaw. Today was evidently not one of those days. “Hard to ignore a liveried runner with a three-man escort. Which is the point.”

The breath he’d been holding since he walked in came out all at once. “This is bad tactics. A trap. There has to be another way. Now, don’t mistake me–” He drew up, took a breath. His expression softened by a fraction. “I trust you. I trust your capabilities and I don’t intend to insult them, but Gaspard, I trust less than half as far as I could throw him.”

“Ha, I’d pay good coin to see that! Double if the bastard knocks over a mousseaux fountain or a tower of petitsfours on the landing.” She gave a crooked smile. He declined to return it.

“It is the court. Everyone’s out for everyone else’s head over trifles. The duke doesn’t have to bear me the best will. He can mutter into his glove about the flea-bitten rabbit bitch polluting his arm and the kennel of unwashed mongrel heretics riding her train while he minces red-heeled all over the land that blessed Andraste granted to my foremothers if it pleases him. The only thing I need him to do is to get me in the gate so that we can prevent an assassination.” She was deliberately provoking him, and a part of her wasn’t sorry for it.

“Have you already ruled him out as the killer? Or any one of his men, or theirs, on orders or maybe not?” He mostly succeeded at maintaining a level tone, but his fists and jaw clenched tightly enough to crack bone.

She snorted. “Gaspard and Celene have been tying the south up with a succession dispute since well before the Chantry started eating its own entrails or the sky ripped open; that’s a fool’s wager. The advisors are keeping me apprised of the gritty specifics, and however those play out, I figure the best place to foil a regicide is in arm’s reach of the flank, at about liver-height or so.”

He lunged and caught her by both wrists. She stifled a yelp. No amount of time served with him in the field ever lessened her astonishment at how quickly a man of his size could move.

“Emm’asha, please.“ He leaned down so that his face was level with hers, and spoke in a strained half-whisper. “You must listen to me. You are in danger.”

She made a small snarling noise, tried not to dwell on his anguished expression or how his voice hitched around that familiar address. “When haven’t I –”

“And your fate is ours.”

She relented.

“You intelligence and your audacity are admirable. They have done you great credit. But the Grand Duke and his men are not demons. They are not deluded magisters, or templars and apostates made desperate by dire straits and want of lyrium. They are well-supplied, well-supported opportunists. They feed on blood, and they profit by seizing on any weakness they can find. Your advisors are convinced that because Gaspard is a chevalier, a commander of chevaliers, because he professes to hate the Game, that he is an honorable man. They are badly mistaken.”

“You speak as if from experience, Ser Warden. How did you come by it, and what do you know?” A challenge, not a question.

“Too much time spent as the weapon in others’ hands, deployed to frivolous purpose. I was a soldier for a long time before I joined the Order,”

He met her silent, hard-eyed demand for specifics with a ragged sigh and a shake of his head. “I will speak to the Commander, and to Sister Nightingale. If we have other options, we should take them.

“And if we don’t?”

“If we don’t,” he relaxed his grip just enough to take her hands instead, dipped his head and swallowed audibly before continuing “then I ask to be allowed to fight at my lady’s side.”

She stared in bemused silence. He pressed on.“I have been cold to you these last few weeks. I regret it. I hope you won’t discount the message on account of the bearer’s unworthy behavior.”

“If I did, what kind of leader would I be?”

That prompted a small smile. “A mortal one.”

“Knowing how much you adore the court and its terms of engagement, I’d thought to spare you the excitement.” she flexed her hands in his, scars on scars, and briefly allowed herself to wonder what it might be like to dance with him. “For my own vicarious comfort, at least.”

“I appreciate the thought, truly.” There was the laugh she’d been trying to extract, low, rumbling and conspiratorial. “But there’s too much at risk. I–we can’t lose you.” He gave her hands a final, gentle squeeze before disengaging. “I should go; I’ve taken an unfair share of your time. Please, think on what I’ve said.”

She watched him depart, flexed hands still warm from his touch, and dragged them through the hair at her temples. _“Dirthamen’enaste”_ she hissed to herself. The fox keeps her secrets at the ready to gain an advantage, but the bear will never let go of his.


End file.
